Diagnosis of Self
by Lady Viola Delesseps
Summary: As Sherlock broods in the next room, John Watson opens his laptop and begins to type, if only to get his thoughts in some semblance of order. John's counterpart to Sherlock's "Case In Point" (read first, if you have not already).


I am beginning to think that that was in very poor taste. Of course, I never really intended for things to go as they did. I'm mentally hitting myself over the head as I type. A light is on in the other room, so I suppose he is awake too. Insert curse word here. I wouldn't say that I'm a confrontational person, but there are times like these when I wish that I could go out, solve everything and then we could continue in a pleasant life. Harry convinced me that wasn't going to happen. They say that older sisters teach you things. I never really believed "them", whoever "they" are. Not until now, that is.

So, here I am, randomly typing. Who would have guessed it. [Sherlock]. He thinks my blog is stupid. Says that no one wants to read it. Fine. No one will ever be reading this. Probably not even me. After I get my thoughts and feelings out onto these pages, I will probably save it, just in case, but I can't imagine wanting to relive or rearead this. Looking back it will either be incredibly emotional or incredibly idiotic. Which in Sherlock's opion are one and the same.

Life with Sherlock has been a never-ending adventure. I'd never have admitted it, but before beginning a flatshare with him, I would often put myself in small amounts of danger for a little excitement. Maybe not as much as he would. Alright, most certainly not as much as he would. But I think that's partially why anyone joins the military. Adventure. Peril. The chance to prove yourself brave, strong, and good. And I think I have just blown any chances I ever had at that.

I am trying to think back to where it all began, but I'm feeling a little foggy. I guess the best place to say it began would be at the beginning. The first thing I noticed about him was they way he seems to look right through you. Yes, I suppose it's a little unnerving at first, but that is one thing that I have come to like so much about his presence. The fact that you needn't bother trying to be stuffy or even polite at all. He doesn't care for that. It's strangely relieving and shocking in equal measures. I can't believe that he is really without emotions, as much as he would have us believe that. It's not Asperger's, or, more properly, it's not just Asperger's – more like schizoid personality disorder plus something along the line of the austism spectrum disorder. My, how I hate that. Disorders. As if there were something wrong with him. T here's nothing wrong with him. Not a single, bloody thing.

And yet, that contradicts the second thing I noticed about him. If my first impression was intimidation, my second was endearment. It struck me like a ton of bricks how utterly helpless he really is. And I felt as if he needed someone. He needed me. I sound like a self-important lunatic now writing this, to think that the great Sherlock Holmes needed _me_, but I feel it is my responsibility to look after him, make sure he's alright for the most part. He may be a brilliant man, but he is not a well man. And it doesn't take a doctor to see that.

So, I suppose in the end, it is a bit of a muddle. Spending just bits of time with him would have done it, I think. But of course, I have to spend every waking minute with him (and minutes I would rather be sleeping, to be honest) and that does something to a man's mind. At first I thought I was going insane. Absolutlely, bloody insane. It might be contagious. (Don't be a fool, I can hear him saying. He doesn't get jokes, or, worse, he gets them before you do and suddenly it's not funny anymore, to neither of us. Not sure if that's proper grammar, but don't care at this point). So aside from the fact that he blindly plunges into danger, dragging me with him, that he can't take care of himself enough to not plaster an entire box of nicotine patches on his arm, and that he eats on average of three times a week (four if I make risotto, but that's a long story), we are fairly well-matched. As far as friends go, that is.

Here is the trouble. Everyone thinks we're more than friends. Now, I know well enough about my own self to know that just because someone suggests I'm gay (rather, does it at nearly every turn, it seems) does not mean I am gay. Then I'd be about as weakminded as Sherlock thinks I am. Ha! There it is: caring about his good opinion. Maybe that's where it began. I tell myself it is perfectly okay for a guy to care what another guy thinks about him, especially if you admire the guy as much as I admire Sherlock. But it is really getting out of hand. Now I lie awake at night, wishing he were with me (bloody Mary, how awkward that sounds, that isn't what I meant) and thinking of what he might be doing at this and such time of day if we are not together. Is it bad that I just want to be in the same room as him ? (Grammar, again. Sherlock does that to a person.)

So tonight I really blew it. I started the conversation, and I wish I could say he took over and monologued the rest for us. It can be a little irritating, but I am usually too blown away by the amount he can see into my mind to remember to be insulted. Like the time he told me I was an idiot and expected me not to get offended. Like it was just common knowledge, and I ought to get used to it. But this time he just stared blankly like I was speaking Hindi to him (except I think he actually knows Hindi, so never mind). So, in his brilliant mind, he really did not have a place to put these words – what do we call them? Oh, right. _Feelings_. Of the good sort.

So of course I put my foot in my mouth and made an absolute fool of myself blundering my way backwards through what I'd said, trying to make him think it was, well, not what I'd said. He just squinted and stared at me, before turning back to his work (hair follicles, I believe. Right, he has a strange attraction to hair follicles he said, and when he was younger would pull out his hair just to look at it. Frustration ensued when the follicle would be left behind in the skin, and happiness when it would prove to a "a good one". I suppose he had quite a little bald patch before someone noticed and put a stop to it. No one would be able to tell, now. I hate to admit how many times I have almost reached out to touch his hair – I sound like such a freak now, don't I. But still. Once I did, when he bent before me to tie his shoe, but I pretended it was an accident caused by his standing up too quickly into my hand. Oh, what a mess. There's supposed to be an end parenthesis about now, isn't there).

I'd say a holiday would be good, except I have nowhere to go. That's why I took a flat with the world's only consulting detective and have proceeded to be extremely confused ever since. I don't know what I'm going to do. Anyhow, it was good to get this off my chest, and hopefully someday I can delete this with relish as a stupid fantasy. Sherlock Holmes is a man married to his work, with no time for anything else. Still, I can't help but hope he'll at least let me continue to be by his side. That's all I want, in the end. Really. Just to be allowed to help him. It's a tremendous honor.


End file.
